calcutta. calcutta.

Just concluded a two day whirlwind trip to Calcutta. A meeting was scheduled over the weekend and that was enough excuse for me to get out of a rather dreary existence (read post below) and get bodily refreshed. Home after all has therapeutic properties still unknown to science.

Here are 13 little experiential snippets. The picture above is not related. It is just trying (very hard) to capture the essence of Calcutta through a very popular iconic horse seen on rickety state buses that ply, sometimes very dangerously, within the city of the dead.

The Road to Calcutta. Episode 1.
Before sunrise. Airport. The musky smell of sleep pervades the air. Smiling, bird-like, head cocked to one side, "Good Morning, Sir. Going to Calcutta?" air hostess greets me as I get aboard. "Calcutta? Oh...Okay", I say. They gawk. I stare at the red carpet. A twittering later I am on Jethro Tull and bottled water.

A Calcutta Seance. Scene 2.
Reached. Hot. Like multiply the word by itself. In the company of the most boring people this side of the milky way. I'm wearing a red shirt. I'm smiling infrequently at stale jokes. This can take a while.

The Calcutta Diaries. Chapter 3.
Empty hour. Thirteen cigarettes and one hot, sweet as hell, sickly concoction later the word 'lunch' is finally being thrown about, casually. Emotions betray me. My stomach churns. Fingers twitch. A solitary tear smudges the doodle on my notepad. I'm supposed to be writing the minutes. Damn. I write a couplet on retardation. Tap. Tap. Ok. I think someone just asked me a question. I nod. Knowingly.

Calcutta Chromosome. Ver 4.1
Mogambo. Cold asparagus. Beckty Muniere w/ blanched spinach and lobster thermidor. Mangoes with ice cream to polish it off. Bombay, learn.

Oh! Calcutta. Page 5.
Back. The air conditioner hums on almost ignoring it's recipients. The copywriter with a gas problem scribbles unintelligibles on a scrap of paper. I appear serious. The client with the bulldog complex shakes his head with disdain at every layout, packaging, piece of paper we show him. I think the meeting is going good.

Chronicles de Calcutta n.6
First flush Darjeeling. The next most sacred thing in the city after Ray. On first cup. Antsy. The first sweatbeads of approaching potty. I try to appear calm. But something else is bothering me. How can one get a hard on at the same time? Maybe Ma is right. I am different.

Calcutta Case File #7
A humid day has bloomed into a fine evening. A cool wind picks up as I walk back to the hotel. I inhale deep and slow. It smells of me. Of ten years gone by. Too soon. The wind in turn smells me back. Like an old dog. Trying to remember. Wagging it's tail slowly.

Calcutta Scrapbook Entry 8
Nighttime. The city sleeps. A wandering madman contemplates the merits of a dry pavement. I stand at the balcony and look out. A memory knocks. And a thin strand of an old hindi film song hangs moist in the air. A droplet falls into the my glass. Whisky #3.

Calcutta Capers The 9th Report.
Sunday. Noon. Quiet empty streets. A cheery slumber grips the populi. It is a reluctance that's revered by those who practice it. A day designated to nothing. No wars. Just comforting sounds and smells. Resignation. A temporary envelope.

Calcutta; The Lost Files. Folio 10.
The afternoon. Motionless. Punctuated infrequently by the mating calls of birds unseen. I stand and stare at the hot stillness of the garden. Practicing smoke rings. I think about my footprint in the big city. And dirty feet.

Calcutta Monologue. 11th Verse.
Jazz at the club. People seem content as they down subsidised alcohol. The evening unfolds with an unwillingness akin to molasses. With friends from another era. They are with their wives. I like one of them.

Calcutta Postcard. 12 annas.
In cab. Speeding over a newly constructed flyover. Familiar landmarks rush by like old friends trying to avoid you. A violent poem of blurry lights. The mind wanders. To a special place. Albeit constructed. Where confetti is a small meeting and reckie, a mispelt abbreviation.

The Treaty of Calcutta. The 13th Song.
It's just turned tomorrow. I stand by the window smoking my last cigarette (or is it my first?). The sky is red. I stay calm. Collected even, as I think of the week ahead. In a few hours, I will be 2000 miles away. Closer. You only know what you feel for someone in their absence. The trip is over. It's been emotional.

The Calcutta Novella. Epilogue.
Aircraft. Early morning. 5 mins behind schedule. Hungry. Two hours later I'll be in Bombay, smoking with some trashy supplement in the loo. Can't wait. On some days, I am afraid of flying.